Though everyone kept telling me she would be all right, something in their voices spoke loudly of the doubt that everyone was secretly harboring[3] in the back of their minds. All I wanted was for the doctor to say, “She’s going to be fine.” He didn’t. Every moment that passed allowed the doubt to grow stronger and bigger. Finally, he walked tentatively down the hall and stood quietly in front of us. He started to tell us about her head.
I knew that head wounds were very dangerous and that they could result in many different injuries. It was then that the long-awaited words came—the only words, from the only person that I could accept them from the doctor. Amanda was going to be okay.
My heart leaped as I realized I still had a sister. She would never look the same and would require hours of plastic surgery, but she was alive, and that’s all that mattered to me.
A year later, I still have a sister, and even though we quarrel and nag at each other, every time that I see her face and I spot the large scar that stretches from her hairline across her forehead, down her eyelid and back up to her hair, I remember to tell her that I love her.[4] I remember when I almost didn’t have the chance to tell her again how much I really do love her, and I thank her I still can.
一想到中学生涯的第一天,我的额头便直冒汗珠。我以为大家肯定会针对我,节节课都为难我,然后再哄笑着把我赶出学校。然而在第一个钟头,就在我被叫去办公室的时候,是否会被大家针对已成了我最不关心的问题。
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